A Quiet Life
by jinglebellsisawesome
Summary: She was the closest thing he had to a friend and he shot her all the same.


"But the order as always merciless,

It wants to see me fail.

So the hunter is now the hunted,

Past voices call my name,

I renounce my past to live again."

~ _A Quiet Life_ , Teho Teardo feat. Blixa Bargeld

* * *

The first thing about him that struck her was his height. Six foot four, silky black hair and a sneering smile: that was who he was. That is how she refers to him in her head. _Was._

Tall, dark and handsome.

(Except he was married and she almost felt as though she were committing some sacrilegious sin by even noting his looks. She didn't feel guilty for long.)

Mr Levy grinned himself as he took in the both of them. "Excellent," he said. "The new F1. Mr Johanssen, I will entrust her junior education to you," he said with a warm smile that would put even the nerviest person at ease.

Mr Johanssen mustered a small smile; although, it wasn't what she would deem to be a true smile and she yearned for Mr Levy's kind eyes.

"Of course. If it would help improve my own learning then I consent."

* * *

Johanssen proved to be a brutal mentor to the shiny new F1 and she learned to be wary of his authoritarian system. His perfectionist nature demanded the same of her as he continuously brought her toward the edge only to gently bring her back-

only to dangle her over once more.

He suppressed any show of opposition (if she could even apply the term 'opposition' in that context; to him, anything less than 100% devout, worshipping willingness to _learn_ from his genius automatically classified as strong 'opposition' in his humble opinion) with acute abundance as though it were his favourite pastime. He routinely mocked her for...well, anything, really. For being tired, for misdiagnosing a mystery patient, for never failing to try and at least appear happy and cheerful to the patients they treated.

It would become all she could hear on the rare occasion he would permit her a power nap in between patients. That dry, patronising chortle of pure scornful mirth as his face twisted into a facade of pitying condescension.

 _"You do wish to become a surgeon, do you not?"_ he would ask and she- she would dutifully nod and wonder whether _this time_ he would authorise her to, not assist, but simply to watch him perform in theatre.

And every time she was dismissed without a single afterthought, she felt her dream begin to shatter and began to question what she was even doing there in the first place.

With every cruel remark he would shoot at her, little chinks of herself, her confidence, her personality, begun to fade. She graduated top of her class from Oxford. She was lesser than the mud on the bottom of his shoe.

Nurse Chiltern was the only one who noticed her drowning struggles. "It's not right. He shouldn't be doing this to you." He gently pulled her in for a hug. "You should tell someone. Tell Hanssen. I know Fredrik's his son but Hanssen's not like that. You should tell him."

Should she? It would surely bring an end to the endless torment she endured on a regular basis - she could learn from someone else. Anyone else. Mr Copeland could be amendable, she thought.

But she couldn't do that to her mentor. She couldn't, _wouldn't_ , oust him to his own father. And it wasn't as though she wasn't learning. Johanssen had taught her a lot and she would much rather learn from no one else.

"It will get better," he reassured, seeing something in her posture shift with determination. She wished she had it in her to believe him.

* * *

Everything about him changed. Johanssen and she had been working on a patient, a Ms Anna Sjoberg, together - well she said 'together' but really their working ethic mimicked an adult (him) and a child (her) who had been subjected to the 'children must be seen and not heard' policy - when their own relationship evolved. Her mentor had been happy, well, happy for him anyway, given his miraculous diagnosis of her unusual condition. So happy, in fact, that he offered her the chance to assist him in theatre.

She had simply stared at him then. Her brain failed her. There was enough self-awareness to realise that she probably resembled a gaping fish as she looked up at him as if he were a holy deity yet she couldn't find it in her to care all that much. Nothing could bring her down. Not even Mr Johanssen's usual snarky comment about her uncharacteristic silence could bring her crashing from cloud nine.

Although, even he could not muster the concentrated levels of crank that he usually did that day.

And that operation... That was exactly the reason why she chose to become a surgeon and it was a memory that would always befall her whenever she was down. Her proudest moment of her life had come when he had barked at her to hold the clamp for him so he could get better visualisation. She had almost burst from excitement. The rush, the adrenaline, everything. It was everything she had envisioned and more.

"That was amazing," she told him in nothing short of a daze.

Johanssen smirked at her and simply informed her that if she thought that operation had been 'amazing' then she hadn't seen anything yet.

Her smile grew wider.

* * *

Yet not all good things can last and, soon enough, when she returned to work the following day, he has returned to his sullen, uncontrollable self.

She idly wondered whether it was possible to contract emotional whiplash in this manner because she was sure that was her diagnosis.

Prognosis? Terminal.

"What do you need me to do?" she asked because she was tired of dealing with his irritable personality and her armour was perfectly fashioned to protect against his poisonous barbs.

"I need you to shut up. Just stand back and observe."

She bit her tongue and did as she was bid.

Nurse Chiltern kept glancing back at her and he flashed her a winning smile that she supposed was meant to be reassuring but only served to reinforce just how uncomfortable the situation was.

But she would be the victim no longer. As soon as the day was finished, she would go to Mr Hanssen. Ben was the right the first time: it was not right. She had fought hard to get to where she was and she was damned if she'd let anyone take away all those years of hard work and reduce her to nothing more than a meek, passive wall-flower.

Her mind was made up. Even Mr Copeland and Mr Levy had noticed features of Mr Johansson's behaviour that were less than desirable to have, even for a surgeon. She could perhaps rally their support?

Firstly, as soon as Mr Johansson had finished his meeting with Ms Karnik, she would tell him. It wasn't as though she owed him, however, she knew it was the right thing to do. Besides, if one of her mentees was unjustly mistreated as horribly as she had been, then she would want to hear it from them personally beforehand. So she could apologise for her rudeness.

(Not that she truly anticipated Mr Johanssen apologising but the sentiment was there nevertheless.)

* * *

She didn't get an apology.

She got him crying.

Carefully knocking on the door of the Medical Director, she made to inquire as to the whereabouts of one Mr Johanssen and her words died in her throat.

Ms Karnik glances over at the opened door. "I did not give you permission to walk in," she snapped, haughtily, protectively. But she is not focused on the senior medical professional but rather her mentor- her mentor who was currently attempting to hide his tears.

"What do you want?"

It was Johanssen that time barking at her yet there was something missing in his voice. He had no bite, no bark. He was no dog. Right now, he was a helpless puppy.

"I just wanted to say that..."

 _I can't tell him_. She could handle it, him, herself. It would be fine. It would all be fine.

"that... Mr Drazier's liver resection is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon."

Johanssen nodded. And, with nothing else left to say, she left.

* * *

She wasn't sure what brought about that change in him but change he had. He used to take pleasure in berating and humiliating her and now he took the time to mince his words and come up with solutions to her medical errors and problems.

On-call rooms became a secondary home to the both of them. Sometime after his momentary display of weakness, he had begun to sneak in with her. Not in an overtly sexual way, but because he " _couldn't sleep without the sound of someone else's breath_ ".

Despite the request being an odd one, she shuffled over to make room for him on the bed and almost laughed at his struggle to fit his entire frame on the bed.

"Go to sleep," he said, exhausted.

"Alright."

* * *

Their relationship developed in the next few weeks, so much so that she was actually starting to refer to him as Fredrik in her head.

That wasn't to say that the general surgical register had suddenly and mysteriously turned a corner in his harsh demeanour toward her or that he had lessened the severity of his words - because he hadn't. He was exactly the same, except he wasn't. She couldn't explain it.

It was almost as though she could call him a friend.

Of course, it didn't last long. Why would it? He was only there for thirteen weeks and the minute his reign over Holby ended, he strode on in to his father's office and emotionally blackmailed him into supporting Fredrik's drug trial. Hanssen didn't, obviously. She wasn't sure why Fredrik even bothered.

Still, it still came as something of a shock to her when Hanssen made his way to Keller to personally inform her of Fredrik's impending departure. She had grown accustomed to having him around and when he wasn't... it was hard to get used to. Not when everything reminded her of him.

 _He didn't even say goodbye._ That stung most of all.

She requested a transfer to AAU shortly after. There was no proper mentor for her after him, not on Keller. Copeland and Levy had shared the responsibility but she just needed a fresh start and she needed something to get her blood racing again.

Fredrik had taught her a year's worth of medicine in thirteen successive weeks. She doubted she would find another mentor as befitting as he was.

* * *

5th December 2017.

That was the day everything changed.

It would forever be ingrained in her memory.

\\\~/

The day started off with a buzz. The reputable Professor John Gaskell had arrived in Holby, bringing his award-winning Patient Zero with him. Yeah; the award-winning Patient Zero who was miraculously cured of motor-neuron disease.

And she was the most excited of all. She wasn't sure yet what speciality to pick but if amazing medical advancements like this were a routine procedure then neurosurgery didn't seem to be a bad fit.

AAU didn't seem too bad, either, if she were being perfectly honest. (She couldn't exactly complain since her ex-mentor, the CEO's own son, hadn't even been offered a permanent contract even when Fredrik had given everything up to be there in Holby.) She had assisted Mr di Lucca and Nurse Harrison on a patient who was unknowingly a recipient of the most unusual predicament: superfetation.

Nurse Harrison had been particularly enlivened at the discovery.

When the lights suddenly diminished later on, she wasn't consciously worried. She supposed, in hindsight, that she was under the naive supposition that nothing bad would happen - she was an optimist, still, at heart and that was something that wouldn't change for anything. So when Mr di Lucca tells her to accompany him in his transfer of their superfetation patient, she hurried on after him. Because she was an F1 and that's what F1s did.

She dashed on ahead of both him and the patient, hurrying over to the lifts where she frantically pressed the button to get it to open. Looking back now, she didn't know why she slammed the button so insistently; the patient was stable, there was no immediate crisis. Why didn't she act casual?

Perhaps something inside her knew of what was about to happen. Perhaps it was superstition. Nurse Harrison (" _please, call me Essie"_ ) had been feeling as though the whole day was an omen for something terrible and she would be lying if she said that that hadn't affected her judgement.

Perhaps that was why she was in denial of the shooter's identity. Right up until the moment he shot her.

"Fredrik?" She had asked, once, because, surely Mr Johanssen wouldn't go on a shooting spree and murder all of his former colleagues just because he felt betrayed? He wouldn't shoot his F1, would he? How did you even get to that point where you would consider a mass shooting to be a viable course of action?

He didn't say anything. He just stared at her with cold, dead eyes and there was so much that she wanted to say that she wanted to convince him of but she couldn't because her vocal chords had decided to clam down and shut up and justasshewantedtosaysomething

There was a crack of a gunshot and blinding pain and slow, steady footsteps and then everything went silent.

Except for what sounded like a gurgle of blood from behind her and she twisted her body around (as much as one was able to do with a gunshot wound to the shoulder) to locate the source. She gasped when she saw him.

Mr di Lucca was lying no less than ten feet away, both hands wrapped around his neck, as though acting as some kind of human plaster. She didn't understand what had happened until her mind processed the blood spurting out from between his fingers and she _knew_.

Fredrik had fired one bullet. Her wound was a through-and-through. Mr di Lucca took the rest of the bullet, which lodged itself perfectly in his jugular vein.

She gasped and ignored her wound as she desperately ran over to him. "Mr di Lucca!" she cried, as though her emotional interjection would somehow magically heal his gunshot wound. She helped him up, and ushered him in to the lift (she wasn't sure who, what, where, why and when the lift doors had opened but in that one, miniscule moment, she was glad that they had).

She pushed a button to the third floor and frantically hoped for the best. "It's alright," she repeated like a mantra. She wasn't sure whose benefit it was for.

Mr di Lucca made a strange wheezing noise and it took her a minute to realise that he was laughing. She made to place her own hands atop his to help stem the flow of blood but he shook his head as best he could, losing more blood by the minute.

"Phone. Essie." Was the only instruction she received and it didn't take genius to figure out what he was trying to convey. Her hands shook as she reached into the pocket of his scrubs and grasped his phone.

"3321," he croaked when the phone asked for the PIN.

She held the phone up to his ear, indicating for him to take it as their hands swapped positions: he grasped the phone and she grasped his neck.

(She couldn't stop crying as the rings directed him to Essie's answerphone and he left her that voicemail. She could recite it word for word.)

Afterwards, when the phone slipped from his hands and his energy took a serious dip, they sat in companionable silence. She felt almost regretful that his last moments were to be spent with _her_ , an F1 whom he hardly knew and whose mentor had shot them both, rather than the woman he loved, and she didn't know how to vocalise those thoughts so she simply sat, with her hands on his neck, and listened to his breathing grow shallower and shallower.

She managed not to cry when he was alive but when her hands felt his pulse stop, the tears wouldn't stop coming. She still didn't remove her hands, though, just in case. When she finally did, the blood had stopped pumping so no blood came gushing out.

Collapsing next to him on the immovable lift, she clutched his cold hand in hers and listened as the gunshots fired around the hospital. It was amazing how much one could hear in a lift. You don't realise how noisy they are until they stop.

After a while, she grew numb to the sounds. To the noise of death. To the pain in her shoulder. The silence. All of it. When the lift doors pinged open to reveal none other than Mr Levy and Professor Gaskell, she simply stared straight ahead and said, "He's dead."

And that was that.

* * *

Following a brief recovery, she requests yet another transfer. This time to train in Holby's Emergency Department under the watchful eye of one Doctor Dylan Keogh. He reminds her a bit of Fredrik and she finds the thought almost comforting.

Except not today. Today is not a good day. Today, she can barely _breath_ and her heart won't stop _beating_ and her breathing won't just _calm_ and she can't stop her brain from _thinking_.

She just wants a little peace and quiet.

"Okay, let's just examine this before you start screaming murder in the ED." Dylan pauses. "He shot your shoulder."

Her back stiffens. "Is that supposed to be reassuring?" She snarls with a bitter edge.

"Would you just hear me out, please." Dylan abhorred emotional situations; he does not do emotions. But, he figures, he should have to try for her. "He shot at your shoulder because he was too far gone to let you go. Yes, you were, as you put it, the 'closest thing he had to a friend' but you represented everything he did not achieve. You were awarded a placement on AAU and he was rejected by his father and sent off back to Sweden."

Her breathing starts to normalise as his words sink into her. Thank God, he thinks, he doesn't think he has it in him to keep calming her.

"He could have shot you anywhere else - the heart, the liver even the brain - to finally end you. Yet he chose the shoulder. It was his own way of sparing you."

There is a protracted silence. She coughs lightly, although Dylan immediately dismisses it as a scoff. "You know, you would make a good psychiatrist."

Dylan had felt the barb so many times he no longer reacts to the insults. With a stiff nod, he makes to walk off before she calls his name.

There was something akin to gratitude sparkling in her auburn eyes. "Thank you," she whispers.

Dylan nods once more, turns sharply on his heel, and strides in the other direction.

* * *

She isn't used to sleeping alone. Fredrik had often shared an on-call room with her after Sara had left. "I'm not used to sleeping in silence," he grudgingly admitted.

Now he had ruined sleep for her as well. Sleeping alone is not an option for her either.

Although her new mentor stoutly disagrees with that assessment.

"What in the world are you doing in my boat?"

"Couldn't sleep," she says. "Can't sleep on my own." She grudgingly admits with a whisper.

"You know they have people for that, don't you? I believe the correct term is "escort". Why don't you hop along to the nearest pub, I'm sure you'll find plenty."

When she refuses to reply, he huffs about and tries to get comfortable. Eventually he falls asleep.

Her eyes rest on the dark ceiling of the boat and do not close once.

* * *

"Come in."

She opens the door and walks in with a diminished, nervous smile. The leaflet she is clutching becomes something of a lifeline to her, as though her life would end were she to let go.

Who knows? Perhaps it will.

"Ah, Mr Johanssen's F1. What can I do for you?"

She notes the tightness in his face as his eyes rake over her own, calculatingly. His jaw clenches at her presence and she finds herself wondering, and not for the first time, what she was doing here.

Her steel walls are beginning to crack but she sees Fredrik's face flash between her eyes and her resolve solidifies.

Before she can think twice, she thrusts the hand clutching the leaflet forward and places it gently (so, so gently) on the top of his desk. She tries to straighten the edges out as Fredrik had told her of his father's OCD yet it was not perfect. Nothing would ever be again.

"I, uh, I went. To Sweden. Stockholm," she says, stuttering slightly. It doesn't help that the enigmatic CEO is simply staring at her, silently judging. "I just had to go and see him. See him off, one last time. To say goodbye, you know?

"Anyway, so, I booked a flight to Stockholm. It was kinda spontaneous so I didn't bring anything with me, save for my phone and a wallet full of Sterling. Except I forgot my charger and conveniently forgot that the rest of Europe uses Euros instead of pounds. That led to a really interesting conversation when I was trying to buy some flowers to put on his grave-" she pauses as Hanssen adjusts slightly in his chair. She thinks maybe she should stop. It must be painful for him but it has been painful for her and she needs to get it off her chest.

Get him off her chest.

"The funeral was really nice, actually, even if I had to use Google Translate to tell everyone why I was there." She laughs lightly; it's not funny but there is something in her that needs to laugh. "And, uh, only one person looked at me like I was the one who personally shot him in the chest."

This sobers her up, sobers them both up. It's not funny.

"So, uh, I feel really stupid now but it somehow managed to completely escape my mind that English is not the native language of Sweden. I had absolutely no idea what they were saying. All I know is that it made this one woman start to cry."

"Maja," Hanssen croaks slightly, the first monosyllable he's spoken since she all but barged into his office. She nods and takes a breath, gesturing to the leaflet she placed on his desk:

"I was wondering if you would be able to translate it for me. I wouldn't ask, only I don't know anyone else who speaks Swedish and when I tried to use Google again it told me that Fredrik was a massive heroin addict who loved nothing more than cuddling toys." Her admission draws a nervous laugh from herself.

Hanssen looks away and something not unlike dread settles in her stomach. She pushed too soon, she realises too late, it's still too raw.

"I'm sorry. I've made a terrible mistakes. It's still too soon, I should have realised. God, I should have realised," she rambles. "I'm just- I'm just gonna go and, uh, can we just forget that this never happened?"

She makes to move off, opening the door with a speed she didn't know she possessed, and she is stopped by Hanssen's deep voice.

"Gone but never forgotten."

Pause. "I'm sorry?"

"That's what it says. 'Gone but never forgotten: in loving memory of Fredrik Johanssen'."

She exhales shakily. "I think I'm still in denial. I don't know, maybe not being able to understand what they were on about made it seem like it wasn't real. I'm in denial still. I hoped this would help let me move on but maybe it's only gonna make it worse."

Hanssen offers her a slight smile himself. "My door is always open," he says softly.

She smiles back and lets herself out.


End file.
